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Vasil Bykaŭ, a quiet, unassuming person, is one of the best, if not the best known contemporary Belarusian writer. His candid, outspoken treatment of subject matter is presented not merely in the abstract. In his gentle psychological study of his fellow man, Bykau becomes an integral part of whatever he writes about. He is not disinterested observer; he is deeply involved with his characters and their problems. Nothing rings false or seems excessive in his analysis of human nature or social behavior. And this makes him a great and compassionate writer universally admired and appreciated.
His works have been translated into many languages — 52 at latest count — the greatest number into Russian and Ukrainian, followed by German and English.
While generally adequate, the English translations of Bykaŭ's writings have, unfortunately, almost always been done from a Russian version rather than from the Belarusian original. And, although Bykaŭ himself has translated many of his own works into Russian, the books, as published, "lose a lot in translation", as the saying goes.
The reason for the less-than-satisfactory translations were explained to this author in a personal letter from Bykaŭ, written in July of 1995. "For my entire life, I have never happened upon an adequate translator," he wrote. "All of those that came along, did, in general, poor translations."
He is keenly aware, of course, that the translations of his works in other languages have been based on Russian versions. So when he did such translations of his own writings into Russian, he treated the task very seriously. He writes, "I don't wish [that work] on anyone — it took more of my energy by seven-fold than the work I did on the Belarusian original."
English translations of Bykaŭ's major works, by date of the Belarusian original, are chronologically as follows:
Трэцяя ракета, written in 1961; translated into English by Robert Daglish in 1962 under the title The Third Rocket, appeared in the journal Soviet Literature, in excerpts, and then the following year, in full, under the title The Third Flare, brought out by Moscow's Foreign Languages Publishing House; and in 1974 by Progress Publishing House.
Next was Альпійская Балада, written in 1963. The English translation was entitled The Ballad of the Alps, translated by R. Parkes and E. Manning. It appeared in 1964, in Soviet Literature. In 1966, a translation by George Hanna, under the title Alpine Ballad, was published by Moscow's Progress Publishers and, again in 1989, by Raduga Publishers.
The third title is Сотнікаў, written in 1970 and translated into English in 1972 by George Clough under the title The Ordeal. It was published in London by Bodley Head and in New York by E.P. Dutton. Progress Publishers put this novel out in 1975, under the title Sotnikav, translated by Brian Bean.
Дажыць да сьвітаньня, was written in 1972. It was translated into English in 1981 by Jennifer and Robert Woodhouse under the title Live Until Dawn, published in New York. In 1989 it was translated by George Hanna and A. Miller, under the title Hold out Till Dawn and was published in Moscow.
Воўчая зграя, written in 1975, was translated into English the same year by Robert Daglish, and appeared in Soviet Literature under the title The Wolf Pack; it was later translated as Pack of Wolves by Lynn Solotaraff and published in 1981 in New York.
Another book written in 1975, Яго Батаяьён (His Battalion), was translated by Jennifer and Robert Woodhouse, and published together with Live Until Dawn in St. Lucia, New York, and London in 1981 by the University of Queensland Press.
In 1978, Bykaŭ wrote Пайсьці і не вярнуцца, which was translated by Hilda and Janet Perham. It appeared in Soviet Literature in 1979 under the title To Go Never to Return.
Finally, Знак бяды was written in 1982 and translated into English almost simultaneously in Mensk in 1989 and in New York in 1990. Neither of the translators knew that the other's work was in preparation. The Mensk translation was done by Nigel Timothy Coey and entitled Portent of Disaster; the New York version, published by Allerton Press, was translated by Alan Myers and called Sign of Misfortune.
If one focuses on this last work, a comparison and analyse of the two translations is instructive.
First, the title. So full of meaning in the Belarusian original, the phrase "Знак бяды", is rendered rather weakly as "Sign of Misfortune"; slightly stronger in "Portent of Disaster" in the Mensk edition, but still inadequate to convey the notion of a prophetic omen of calamity, connoted by the original two words. One cannot envy Bykaŭ's translators. His nuances and allusions are virtually untranslatable.
Although the Mensk edition claims to have been translated from Belarusian, a close analysis discloses that it was, in fact, translated from the Russian, — as was the New York translation. This accounts for the numerous inaccuracies and deviations from the Belarusian original.
Знак Бяды was translated into Russian by Bykaŭ himself. He admits that some changes may be his own, but by no means all of them. "After I had done my translation, the novel was then severely re-edited for publication in the Druzhba Narodov, where it was published first; and later by the Molodaia Gvardiia publishers in Moscow." The author continues in the same letter: "How it all transpired is a dramatic story in itself. Editorial variations were so numerous that I lost all count of them. Worst of all was the fact that part of chapter 16, about "raskulachvanne" (seizure of farmers' property) was cut out."
It would be appropriate at this point to give an English translation of the exised portion at the beginning of chapter 16.
... "The next day the property of Ladzimir Bahacka was to be confiscated.
In the morning Patap Kanandzionak came to Iakimaushchna and, sensing that now he was not welcome in Stsepanida's home, he tapped on the window and harked Liavon's orders to come to raskulachvanne. She said to him, and to herself: "Damn it" — and did'n go. Let them do it without her — she did't vote for raskulachvanne.
Later, however, she began to worry, mostly for Aniutka — how was she doing. They might deport her and she would never see the girl again.
The thought of it was so upsetting that Stsepanida run to Vyselki, just as she was — in her old skirt and worn out footwear.
What happened then came to her as if in a dream...
So as not to see anything more, Stsepanida turned about and went along the street, knowing not where or why..."
Thus, the Russian editions and, subsequently, the English ones were either curtailed or changed or edited — not always to the benefit of the novel.
A few other examples will illustrate this point:
The first one needs a brief introduction. Sciepanida, the protagonist, hid her piglet in the ravine near the village to save it from being requisition by the German soldiers. But, being a piglet, it would make a great deal of noise when it was hungry and noise would carry throughout the ravine as in a tunnel. So the woman thought to herself, Трэба яго накарміць, а то пэўна, верашчыць на ўвесь роу (ch. 11).
The Russian text was altered to: Надо было его накормить, а то еще завизжит на всю округу...
The English translators followed the Russian text and rendered it as: It would he squealing the whole district out...
What is lost through the lack of precision in translation is the double entendre involved in the phrase "на ўвесь poy" in Belarusian. Stsepanida was not only concerned that the piglet's squeal would reverberate throughout the ravine, but that the squeal would also be at the top of the piglet's lungs — на ўвесь роў — the second connotation of the original Belarusian. This demonstrates that no word in Bykaŭ's works is incidental. Each has a precise meaning, often a double meaning, which through successive translations is frequently lost.
A second example of deviation from the original Belarusian text: Усё ўзіраючыся, яна пайшла насустрач, ведаючы ўжо, што здарылася благое, ніяк толькі ня цямячы — што? (ch. 1) In other words, she went forward to her future, uncertain and frightening as it might be.
The Russian version, for some reason, stopped her short: Замерев, Степанида стояла на большаке.
English translations again followed the Russian and read, in Mensk version: Shepanida (sic!) stood rooted to the spot... The Mensk translation has, unfortunately, numerous misprints. The New York version: Stepanida stood stock-still on the highway...
Here we can clearly see philosophical deviation (or misinterpretation) of the Belarusian text. Such deviations, deletions, misconstructions, and — upon occasion — additions, typically of an ideological nature, abound in the Russian text. There are too many of them to comment on. Suffice it to say, that the Belarusian text is far less political, more humane and profound, and its statements more objective than the reworked Russian version.
Another example demonstrating that both English translations were done from the Russian translation rather than from the Belarusian original is the following. A tragedy has occurred when a child, the last male of the family, was killed by Germans. The Belarusian text reads clearly:
I вось гэтаю ноччу зьвёўся нешматлікі гаротны род высялкоўскіх Ганчарыкаў. (ch. 17)
The Russian text alters what the author wrote and dilutes the intensity of the event, rendering it as follows:
И вот в эту осень свелся на нет и без того немногочисленный, горемычный род...
This mistranslation is picked up in the English translations:
And sо that autumn the ill-starred race of Settlements Gonchariks, few as they had been, dwindled to nothing.
Yet another point that should be brought out is the transliteration of proper names. Surnames and place names are distorted and given a totally alien flavor by consistently being translated according to the Russian or Russified form, rather than following the original Belarusian form, e.g., the
Gonchariks vs. Hancharyks,
Borovka vs. Barouka,
Petrok vs. Piatrok.Yanka is left in its authentic form, but the diminutive is Russified to Yanochka, rather than Yanachka. Even the name Stepanida is written according to the Russian spelling.
It is for all these reasons that translations should be made from the original text in which the work was written, not from a translation into a second language, so that the new work becomes a third generation text. In the physical world of reprographics, each generation is less clear, less legible, less authentic. How much more is it true that with each successive translation the subtleties of the author's original composition is further diluted, diminished, compromised, distorted, or replaced with the interpretive license of the translator... and that of the publishers. Just as revisionist history exists, so does revisionist literature.
Of course, an author can always safeguard his original thoughts by keeping meticulous notes of all editorial changes. But "I did not save any," Bykaŭ admits. "Who would have known then that the need would arise, that there would be "perabudova"', sovereignty, that some of them might be useful, especially now?"
And, almost in accord with this recent statement of Vasil Bykaŭ, one final example of good translation will illustrate that translations, difficult as they are to do well, are extremely useful in transmiting one culture to another, in exposing a given literature to a broader readership, in at least relaying the authors meaning, even if every nuance is not captured and retained.
At the beginning of chapter 13 of Знак Бяды the author philosophises:
Каб гэта было дадзена чалавеку — хоць трошачкі зазірнуць наперад, угледзець наканаванае яму, але схаванае за пластамі часу, тое, што з усей відавочнасьцю адкрыецца ў наплыве наступных дзён. Дык дзе там! Нічога ня можа чалавек уведаць з свайго будучага і, бывае, радуецца з таго, што неўзабаве зробіцца прычынай гора, а то плача над тым, што пасьля выклікае хіба што ўсьмешку.
And in better translation, published in New York, we read:
If only it were granted to man to peer even a little way into the future and see what lies in store for him, what will become manifest in all its detail with the passing days, but as yet lies concealed behind the strata of time. Not so! Nobody can know what the future holds; he may even rejoice over something soon to became a source of grief or weep bitter tears over what will later merely serve to raise a smile.
Source: "Some Observations on English Translations of [Vasil'] Bykaŭ's Work," by Zora Kipel, in Zapisy, print edition only, vol. 22 (BINIM, New York, 1996), pages 68-72.
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